In
the midst of the forest, she
stood.
In a dress one might
have worn to a party.
Surrounded by others,
hurrying, engaged in their own thoughts.
Beside her a woman, a
tightly tied scarf encircling her skull, her
expression guarded.
Some rise with their
backs turned to the camera, others recline on the
black and white grass.
Was it warm that June
day?
Was there a sweet
breeze?
Or was the air heavy
with ash drifting down from the nearby
smokestacks?
Heavy, greasy flakes?
Redolent?
There she was, her
short blonde hair framing her sweet face.
The topknot.
Long after she had
left Europe, my mother continued to dress our hair
in the manner of the little girl standing in the woods of Birkenau, my
sister and I.
Waiting for her turn
to go into the gas chambers.
Her gaze direct.
Her hands grasping
each other in an effort to calm, comfort, query.
Alone. At the age of
four or five.
Was that her mother
behind her? Before her?
That? That?
Had her mother been
chosen for slavery?
Was she with her
grandmother? Neighbor? Stranger?
The week before she
had been in her home.
Warm. Loved. Adored.
Now, she stood by
herself.
Demanding, in her
sweet, innocent manner.
Were we substitute
children, my sister and I?
Had my mother, age
nineteen, been on her train?
Seen her in the locked
cattle car?
Perhaps.
They came from the
same region, at the same time.
It's possible.
Had my mother admired
her, cared for her, wanted her?
Nameless.
Her dress.
Likely sewn by hand.
Lovingly.
I will name her.
Chanahle.
Little Hannah.
She must not go to her
death unremembered.
She will live on in
our daughters and the children they bear.
In her name.